


The Bequest

by Scarlet



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon Fix-It, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet/pseuds/Scarlet
Summary: "Nothing she writes can make me forget what she did to us."





	The Bequest

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at fixing LadyHarlot post 2X08. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. My deepest thanks to my fabulous kickass beta Amanda.
> 
> For Eden, may LadyHarlot live forever.

__

_You left me, sweet, two legacies, —_  
_A legacy of love_  
_A Heavenly Father would content,_  
_Had He the offer of;_  
_You left me boundaries of pain_  
_Capacious as the sea,_  
_Between eternity and time,_  
_Your consciousness and me._  
_  
Emily Dickinson - Bequest -_

***

“You’re not going to open it?” Nancy asks, lounging back on her chair, cleaning her rods.

Charlotte pushes the letter further away from her on the kitchen table. “I don’t need to. I know what it says.”

“Sorry I was a backstabbing bitch who chose my evil, murderous brother over you,” Nancy sums up sarcastically.

Charlotte plays with her spoon, her porridge has gone cold. The knot in her stomach makes everything taste bland and unappealing. “Desperate people do desperate things,” she tells Nancy.

“If you’re going to defend her, you might as well read her fucking letter,” Nancy smirks.

Charlotte stands up abruptly, snatches the letter from the table, “Nothing she writes can make me forget what she did to us,” she says, chucking the letter on top of the glowing embers in the fireplace. She stares as the paper shrinks and blackens, as small blue flames arise to lick its edges, the elegant script spelling her name vanishing into ashes.

“It hurts because you care, my love,” Nancy says softly behind her.

Charlotte whips round. “I care that Blayne is not rotting in a cell. I care that he and his pack of vile dogs will keep going after innocent girls like Abigail,” she snaps.

Nancy drops the linen cloth she’s been using to wipe her rods on the table. She catches and holds Charlotte’s wounded gaze. “Are you sure that’s all it is?” she asks gently.

“Fuck off, Nance.” Charlotte, her eyes welling up, leaves the room, brushing past her father down the hallway.

“What’s up with her?” William North asks, as he steps inside the kitchen.

Nancy reaches for the bottle of gin in front of her. “She found her heart and doesn’t know what to do with it,” she tells him.

***

A few days later..

“I need to see Charlotte,” Isabella demands, standing outside the Wells’ Greek Street house.

“You’re no longer welcome here,” William North tells her, not budging from the doors’ entrance.

“I must talk to her at once,” Isabella pleads, “she hasn’t replied to any of my letters.”

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here. If you were a man, I would knock you on your pompous, treacherous ass,” William growls, clenching his fists.

Isabella flinches, takes a couple of steps back. “I did what I had to to protect my daughter. Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your family, Mr. North?” Isabella asks somewhat haughtily.

“I would. I am. Presently, I’m protecting my own daughter. From you. She doesn’t want to see you. Leave her alone and go back to your wretched kin, Lady Fitz.”

Isabella glares at him, then, grabbing her skirts, she turns around and marches away.

Alone in the parlour, Charlotte stands by the window watching as Lady Fitz disappears up the street.

“What is it?” Lucy’s voice suddenly queries behind her.

Charlotte plasters a smile on her face before casting her sister a glance over her shoulder. “Nothing, sprat. Shouldn’t you be entertaining Mr. Whitmore?”

Lucy shrugs. “Hannah is keeping him busy,” she says, taking a bottle of brandy from a side table before disappearing again.

Charlotte steps away from the window. She runs a hand over the gold wooden curls of the parlour’s blue chaise as she walks past it, her thoughts flying back to the night when she and Isabella, the cursed and the damned, had sealed their unlikely friendship with a kiss.

With many, many, breathless kisses.

The courtesan and the courtier. Peculiar alliances such as theirs were not meant to last. Charlotte understands this now, even if her body, which still hums from the touch of Isabella’s lips on her skin like a struck tuning fork, doesn’t just yet.

Charlotte pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a deep breath, smoothes the front of her dress, then goes back to her room to do her books.

***

The pleasure gardens are as busy and colourful as they were last year, with its usual lot of drunk lords and bright-eyed harlots running over its lawns. Charlotte walks by the jugglers and fire-eaters while above her head the occasional burst of fireworks illuminates the night sky.

“Good evening, Miss Wells. I do not believe I sent you an invitation this year.”

Charlotte flinches as she recognises the Marquess of Blayne's voice. She composes her face carefully before facing him. Lidington is with him as well as several weak-chinned lords she doesn’t know.

“I have no desire to be seen at your table, my Lord, lest the stench of your decaying soul would spoil my wine,” she tells the marquess with a smile that belies the venom of her words.

Harcourt’s answering grin curves like a blade. “Careful, Miss Wells, my sister might tire of being your shield one day.”

“I have no need for your sister’s protection,” Charlotte tells him, ire rising in her throat.

Blayne’s smile stretches wider, uglier, “Goodness. Did Isabella come back to her senses? Has she forsaken you already? Kicked the whore that you are back into the filthy gutter you came from?” The men behind him all start to chuckle.

As Charlotte opens her mouth to reply, she feels a firm hand slide around her arm, forcing her to turn.

“Miss Wells, how delightful to see you here,” Lady Fitz greets her, pulling her away from Harcourt. “Please, take a turn with me.” Her voice is pleasant but her hard eyes hold an unmistakable warning, as she wraps her fingers like a steel band around Charlotte’s wrist.

Blayne shoots his sister an irritated look, but doesn’t stop her.

“You are utterly reckless,” Isabella scolds once they are safely away from the marquess and his friends.

Charlotte pulls her arm sharply away from Isabella’s grip. “I am reckless? When you allowed your depraved sibling and his degenerate brotherhood of killers to escape justice.” She looks Isabella up and down, “Did you buy that lovely dress with your thirty pieces of silver?”

“ Charlotte...” Isabella begins to say.

“How many more girls has he raped and killed since last year?” Charlotte cuts her. “But such trifles do not matter to you, do they? What’s another servant girl to people of your milieu?”

Isabella blanches, visibly hurt Charlotte would think her so heartless. “Lydia Quigley is in Bedlam. He no longer has a procuress,” she says.

Charlotte scoffs. “Surely you can’t be this naive? Quigley isn’t the only bawd in London who caters to the appetites of men like your brother.”

“And you are equally naive to think a signed confession from Lord Fallon, obtained under duress, would be enough to take my brother down,” Isabella retorts sharply.

Charlotte shakes her head bitterly, “You didn’t give us a chance to even try.”

“All it would have accomplished is getting you all killed,” Isabella insists.

Charlotte’s sudden laugh is unexpected, but there’s no mirth in it. “Please, do not use the pretense of mercy to justify your selfishness.”

Isabella holds Charlotte’s harsh gaze defiantly. “Yes, I was selfish, for putting the needs of my daughter above yours and those of women I had never met, for not wanting to read in the Grub Street press that your lifeless body had been found in the Thames. You do not realise how powerful my brother truly is, but I do. His friends are dukes and princes with the ear of the King. The law has no hold on men like them.”

“So what? We just ignore him and get on with our lives? How can your daughter ever be safe if, as you say, nothing can be done to stop him doing whatever the hell he wants?” Charlotte says, voice shaking with indignation. “How can you keep on living with him knowing what he’s capable of?”

“I’ve known what he was capable of since I was thirteen,” Isabella replies stiffly.

Charlotte blinks, her anger suddenly deflated, and Isabella feels something loosen in her chest as she catches a brief glimmer of compassion in Charlotte’s eyes. It is soon gone, elusive as a spark, but it’s a start.

“My brother and I no longer live under the same roof,” Isabella continues, “my daughter is safe now, and so am I. There are ways to contain Harcourt, but you cannot rely on the law alone to do so.”

Charlotte frowns, curious in spite of herself. “How? What did you do?”

There is a stone bench a couple of yards away from where they are standing. Isabella gestures gracefully towards it. “Will you sit with me?” she asks.

Charlotte hesitates and Isabella lays a careful hand on her arm. “Please, Charlotte... I know you are most angry with me, but will you at least listen to what I have to say?”

Charlotte holds Isabella’s pleading eyes for a long time. “You’d better not ask me to forgive you,” she warns, as she heads for the bench.

“I won’t,” Isabella promises, “I am exceedingly aware I do not deserve it,” she adds as they both sit down.

***

Isabella folds her hands over her exquisitely embroidered silk gown. “You once told me that if I wanted to shatter the chamber of mirrors my brother kept me trapped in, I should locate a weakness and press. So I did.”

“Oh, don’t you dare lay this at my feet...” Charlotte counters, pulling back, disgust plain on her face.

Isabella grabs her hand hastily, “I can assure you that I am not, please... allow me to finish.”

Charlotte snatches her hand back, but remains seated.

“My brother has one weakness,” Isabella continues, “one thing that, try as he might, he cannot fully control or tame: me. Everything he ever did was to keep me from leaving him. He knows I do not love him in the way he wishes I did, sees how abhorrent I find his abject lust for me, so he takes out his rage and frustration on other women,” Isabella locks eyes with Charlotte, “but you know this better than anyone.”

Charlotte shrugs, “He wasn’t the first cull to take his anger out on me and he probably won’t be the last."

Isabella’s eyes soften. “There is so much strength in you, Charlotte, and I admire you tremendously for it,” Isabella says, causing Charlotte to click her tongue, “but I -- had no strength of my own to press or shatter anything, no means to set myself free... until that day.”

Charlotte sighs. “You told him where Fallon was in exchange for your money.”

Isabella lowers her eyes. “My money, a house away from him... and the promise that no harm would befall you.”

“My shield...” Charlotte mutters under her breath.

Isabella looks up, “I beg your pardon?”

Charlotte turns her head slightly, pointing her chin towards the place where they had left the marquess.“Your brother said you were my 'shield' earlier. I wasn’t sure what he meant until now,” Charlotte says in a low voice, and Isabella can hear just how much the knowledge affects her. “I never expected to be part of your deal with the devil,” she adds, sounding so defeated, so tired that Isabella aches all over again from the all encompassing weight of her betrayal. It sits in the pit of her stomach like a jagged stone.

“Please, try to understand. Sophia was in grave danger, I could not wait for Harcourt to be arrested, it could have taken days, I didn’t want him to... Charlotte... you know he would have damned her too,” Isabella says, her voice full of anguish. “I knew my actions would cost me your friendship, but I needed to ensure you would be safe for I could not bear the cost of losing you,” Isabella’s chest heaves as sorrow steals the breath from her lungs, her eyes brimming with tears. “And I still cannot. Your absence has been quite... unbearable,” she finishes, casting her eyes down once again.

The harsh, acerbic words Isabella expects in return never come. When she finally dares look back up, Charlotte is covering her face with her hand, and Isabella isn’t sure if she’s trying to contain her rage or her grief. Having nothing left to lose, she leans forward and gently wraps her arms around Charlotte.

And against all odds, Charlotte melts into her embrace, her hands slipping around Isabella’s waist to clutch at her back.

“I’m so sorry,” Isabella whispers in her hair.

Charlotte’s shoulders begin to shake, “Damn you, damn you...” she curses, her breath hitching in the crook of Isabella’s neck.

 _I am already damned_ , Isabella thinks but does not say.

Isabella feels Charlotte’s tears on her skin... and moments later, Charlotte’s lips as well. It isn’t quite a kiss, just her lips resting there, pressed against the base of Isabella’s throat, warm and soft as a rose petal.

“I miss you...” Isabella sighs, curling her fingers at the nape of Charlotte’s neck.

Two drunk revellers wobble past them, causing both women to quickly pull away from each other.

Charlotte wipes the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, shakes her head as if to clear her mind. “I should go,” she says standing up.

Isabella follows suit. “Thank you, for listening to me,” she says earnestly. She wants to ask Charlotte to stay, she wants to take her home, undress her and take her to bed, but she knows she cannot. Isabella is painfully aware that the day she betrayed Charlotte Wells was the day she forfeited her right to ask anything of her.

Charlotte nods stiffly and Isabella watches her walk away and disappear in the crowd.

  
***

The next day...

When Jacob gives her the letter, Charlotte opens it this time. The only thing written on it is an address. Charlotte slips the letter in her pocket where it burns her fingers all morning every time they happen to graze it.

“What’s the matter with you today?” Nancy asks her, later in the afternoon, as she stands outside by the door, covering for her pa who left to run some errands. “You look like someone pissed in your gin and shoved a stick up your arse”.

Charlotte huffs as she steps over the threshold to lean against the wall next to Nancy. She pulls the letter out from her pocket and hands it over. Nancy opens it and looks at its content. “Lady Fitz?” She asks.

“Who else do we know who can afford a house in St. James’s?”

“The Reptons,” Nancy replies with a twinkle in her eye.

Charlotte chuckles. “They wouldn’t write to me. I’m much too old to be of any interest to them anymore.”

“The lecherous fuckers,” Nancy states with a hint of disgust, before turning her attention back to the letter. “So... the Lady of Iscariote is summoning you”.

“It’s not a summon, more... an invitation. We ran into each other yesterday in the Pleasure Gardens,” Charlotte explains, “we had a long talk.”

Nancy lifts an eyebrow. “How did that go?”

Charlotte looks down, playing with one of the rings on her fingers. “It was... infuriating, painful, exasperating, heartbreaking... all of that,” she finishes with a brief chuckle, conscious how lame she must sound.

“I’ve felt this way about your mother many times,” Nancy points out.

“Yes, but Lady Fitz is not...” Charlotte’s voice trails off.

“Is not what?” Nancy smirks.

“She betrayed me, Nance.”

“That she did,” Nancy agrees, “and I have no kindness for wealthy cunts like her lot, but... I haven't forgotten this is the same woman who tried to save your mother, so, maybe you need to ask yourself if her motivations were bad to the core, or did she do the wrong thing for the right reasons?”

“She was trying to save her daughter,” Charlotte breathes out.

“And did she?” Nancy asks.

“Yes,” Charlotte replies, “although I can’t figure out how she managed to get her wretched brother to leave them alone.”

Nancy reaches out to pat Charlotte’s arm. “Maybe it’s time for you to remember all the foolish, daft decisions your mother made to save Lucy.”

Charlotte lets out a deep sigh. “I know, but I still don’t think I have it in me to forgive her.”

“You don’t have to forgive her to fuck her,” Nancy states bluntly.

“Nance!” Charlotte exclaims, bursting into laughter.

“What? It’s true. Look girl, you’ve been pining for a year and you’ve got to do something about it one way or another. Go tup her a few times and then you can decide if she’s worth forgiving or not.”

“Have I been this obvious?” Charlotte asks, unsure how to feel about that.

“Like a mole on a lord’s ass, my love,” Nancy replies, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tight.

***

It is close to midnight when Charlotte arrive in St. James’s to knock on Isabella’s front door. The footman who ushers her in doesn’t comment about what an ungodly hour it is for visitors and Charlotte would bet her garters instructions were given to simply let her in. She is silently led upstairs and left in a large drawing room.

A painting in the far corner of the room catches her eye and Charlotte walks towards it to take a closer look. It is a portrait of Harcourt as a young man, dressed in a red hunting outfit, a black hat tucked under his arm. With his long blond curls, straight nose and narrow eyes, the resemblance with Sophia is quite striking.

A set of double doors opens and Isabella enters, wearing a long blue dressing gown over her shift rather than her usual attire, her natural hair tied into a thick loose braid. A timid smile lights up her face as she walks towards Charlotte, calling her name on the end of a breath, the rustle of fabric on the hardwood floor as she moves, the only other sound in the room. The footman closes the door quietly behind her.

Charlotte turns back towards the painting as Isabella comes to stand by her side. “Does he know?” she asks, with a tilt of her chin. “He looks so much like Sophia here.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Isabella agrees in a chagrined tone. “I have no idea,” she sighs, “I found him standing right where you are the last time he came here, but he did not say anything. I thought of taking the painting down, but it would only inflame his suspicions.”

“You allow him in your house?” Charlotte asks in a measured voice, turning her head to meet Isabella’s eyes.

“Once a month, so he can visit Sophia. It is part of our agreement.”

“Your agreement…” Charlotte draws the word out, “how do you make a man like him keep his word -- on anything?” Charlotte asks in a tone suggesting she very much doubts such a feat is possible.

Isabella holds Charlotte’s gaze with aplomb. “I began by not giving him anything until all the papers were signed and locked away. I insisted that the promise not to harm you should be drafted as a confession, where he would admit forcing himself on Abigail and being the master of Fallon’s brotherhood. He was quite furious with me when I told him what he should write, threatened me with Bedlam again and worse. Anything that could break in his study, the china, the glasses, the mirrors, got broken that day. Except me. I stood my ground until he had given me everything I asked for. If I were to be your Judas, it had to be worth it.” Isabella states. She looks down with a little embarrassed smile. “I imagined you were with me in this room throughout this ordeal, I knew you wouldn’t have given in. I drew from your strength.”

Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again, at a loss for words.

“Sophia and I moved to this house that same evening,” Isabella continues. “I allow him to visit once a month, and he knows those visits will stop immediately if I ever find out he is hurting anyone again. Sophia knows about his circle of vile men, what he has done... and since Harcourt has grown very fond of her, he has been desperate to prove he’s not the monster I’ve warned her about.”

“Does she believe you?” Charlotte asks.

“She has a lot of questions, many of which I cannot answer,” Isabella sighs.

“Would it help if I talked to her?” Charlotte offers.

“You would do this?” Isabella asks, her throat tight with emotion.

“She needs to know you are not the only one who thinks her... uncle is a dangerous man.” Charlotte replies. She pauses, chews on her lip a little, “All this time, I thought you had done what you did to prevent a scandal implicating your brother from sullying your family’s name. I believed your reputation mattered more to you than loyalty, more than friendship. I am beginning to think I should have given you more credit.”

Isabella smiles sadly. “Since I publicly acknowledged the existence of my daughter, my circle has vanished like dew in the morning sun. I am no longer welcome in the beau monde, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charlotte says, meaning it.

“Don’t be, they weren’t true friends to begin with. I told you I didn’t trust any of them, and I was right not to. Good riddance.”

Charlotte isn’t fooled by Isabella’s casual dismissal. Her disgrace must have been a terrible blow to a woman whose entire breeding relied on the belief that status and reputation trumped everything else, that it came before one’s own well-being or safety, that appearances were so important she had to keep on living with her abuser for the past twenty years.

Lady Fitz seems keen to change the subject, in any case. She looks around the room, a hand fluttering to her chest, “But where are my manners, would you like anything to drink? Some tea perhaps? Something stronger? My butler tells we have received a lovely case of wine from the Dordogne,” Isabella chatters, heading for the doors, intent on calling one of her servants.

Charlotte hurries after her and catches her by the wrist. “I didn’t come here for your tea, nor your wine,” she says.

Isabella stops in her tracks, “Why did you...” her question dies in her throat as Charlotte steps forward, bringing her face very close to hers, so close Isabella can feel the gentle warmth of her breath on her lips.

Charlotte lifts a hand to cup her face, runs her thumb across her cheek. Isabella blinks slowly, her heart drumming in her chest and her nerves sparking like flint on a pistol.

Charlotte moves to kiss her, it starts gently, undemanding, a brush of the lips that says ‘ _I’m here for you_ ’. The second kiss lasts longer, this one says: ‘ _I missed you too_ ’ . The third time, Isabella opens her mouth with a soft whimper seeking a deeper kiss that Charlotte is more than eager to give. Isabella’s hands fly up to grip Charlotte’s shoulders as Charlotte manoeuvres her across the room until Isabella’s back hits one of the pale ornate wooden panels lining her drawing room walls.

Charlotte tangles her fingers in Isabella’s hair, kissing her with all the passion she has kept bottled up all these months. When they finally break the kiss to catch their breath, Charlotte takes in how exquisite Isabella looks in that moment, all flushed skin, burning sapphire eyes and stung lips that could damn a saint.

Charlotte Wells, however, is no saint. Her hand drifts from Isabella’s waist down to her thigh, slips under Isabella’s gown and shift until her palm comes to rest on the bare skin of Isabella’s hip.

Isabella throws her head back, where it thuds against the wall behind her, her fingers clenching against Charlotte’s shoulders. “Charlotte...” the name exhaled as both a plea and a curse.

“Where is your bed?” Charlotte whispers, peppering a wet line of kisses up Isabella’s throat, her clever fingers drawing slow, maddening circles just on the edge of Isabella 's stomach. 

Charlotte’s smile is rather smug as she finds herself grabbed by the hand and promptly led through a series of rooms. Isabella Fitzwilliam does not run, as such a behaviour wouldn’t befit a lady, but Charlotte reckons this is as fast as she’s ever seen her move.

***  
Epilogue

The next morning...

“Will you come to visit often?” Isabella asks, staring up at her bedroom ceiling while running a lazy finger up the length of Charlotte’s spine.

“I don’t know, can you afford it?” Charlotte replies lifting her cheek from its resting place on Isabella’s stomach.

Isabella raises her head sharply from her white pillow, eyes widening in shock, “I... you... I didn’t...” Charlotte moves quickly up to shush her confused stammer with a kiss.

Isabella feels Charlotte’s lips curve mischievously against hers, and she pushes Charlotte back with both hands, breaking the kiss, “You are making fun of me!” she protests, sitting up.

Charlotte grins, shifts closer, “Shhh, my love… you’re not my cull,” she tells Isabella softly, running a gentle thumb down her cheek and across her chin, “you’ve never been my cull.”

And this time it is Isabella who hides her smile into their kiss.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely Eden Singer also read this story on her YouTube Channel. You can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FItqjq4iZE


End file.
